AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega-Chapter 68: Unexpected win

Old Man Harris barged into Lucian’s room without knocking, the door slamming against the wall.

"Things are really on a tough time for us," he huffed, dropping heavily onto the seat beside him. "Tell me you’re looking at something right now or we’re done for."

Lucian didn’t even flinch.

He smiled ,calm, almost amused.

"It’s okay. No need to stress yourself out," he said, eyes still glued to the tablet. "We ain’t losing this round." He zoomed the map slightly, red and blue dots clustering like sparks on dry grass. "Ethan and Hunter are out there defending the flag. We should have faith in them."

Harris exhaled through his nose, half-relieved, half-skeptical.

Lucian’s gaze shifted... not to blue, not to red ,but to a lone purple dot drifting along the outer rim of the map.

"Besides," Lucian murmured, "the real threat here isn’t Bulldozer and Spike."

Harris’s brows shot up. "You mean... there’s an even bigger threat out there?"

Lucian’s smile widened just a fraction.

"Yep. And none of the teams have noticed yet."

He tapped the screen.

Outside, the commentator’s voice roared with excitement as the crowd fixated on the four top dogs circling each other on the road , engines screaming, dust flying, tension peaking.

And far from the spotlight, a single purple bike slipped into the forest trail... unseen, unheard, and perfectly on schedule

(Purple Team – Spawnpoint)

Timothy sat astride his bike, eyes locked on the blue member clutching their flag like a lifeline. A bead of sweat slid down his temple and into his jawline.

If he leaves the perimeter, we’re doomed, he thought, scanning their defensive ring.

Half the formation was already thinning ,bikes missing, gaps widening, stamina draining.

And where the hell is that Ryven guy?

A faint rustle.

Barely audible beneath engines and distant cheers.

Timothy’s head snapped to the side , too late.

An orange flag stabbed into the ground.

Before anyone processed what they were seeing, the purple flag was ripped from the blue rider’s grasp and slammed beside the orange one in a single fluid motion. No struggle. No hesitation. Just... precision.

Silence swallowed the perimeter.

Ryven stood there, one hand still on the flagpole, the other lifting his helmet off slowly. His expression was neutral, almost bored ,like he’d merely finished stretching, not flipped the entire game on its head.

Timothy stared, disbelief hollowing his chest.

"...How the h—"

"AND IT’S A WIN, FOLKS!" the presenter’s voice thundered through the arena speakers. "What an unexpected plot twist! I’m sure the Orange team might be in tears as we speak! With Orange losing , and placing Purple Team in first place!"

The crowd erupted.

Purple smoke flares ignited in the stands.

Helmets flew into the air.

Ryven didn’t celebrate.

He simply looked once at the map display above the field... then walked back to his bike.

’Final Round Scores

Blue Team: 6 members remain

Purple Team: 5 members remain

Red Team: 3 members remain

32 players eliminated

14 players remain’

Across the arena, screens replayed the moment in slow motion ,the orange flag appearing like a magic trick, the purple flag switch, the stunned blue rider frozen mid-reaction.

Commentators called it genius.

Analysts called it tactical inevitability.

The crowd called it legendary.

Timothy tightened his grip on the handlebars.

He finally understood what Lucian had meant on that press he listened months ago

’the biggest threat wasn’t strength, or speed...

It was someone who played a completely different game while everyone else thought they were winning theirs.’

Timothy yanked his helmet off, jaw tight as cheers exploded around him.

Purple jackets swarmed Ryven , pats on the back, raised fists, laughter, victory chants.

Ryven barely reacted. He just stood there, helmet tucked under his arm like the noise didn’t belong to him.

Timothy swung his leg off the bike and stepped forward, irritation simmering under his skin.

"You do know this was teamwork, right?" he said, the sarcasm dripping. "Not a solo performance."

"Indeed it was," Ryven replied flatly. No change in tone. No glance of pride. "And I appreciate you holding onto our flag a little longer."

Timothy’s fingers curled into a fist.

"That’s not what I meant, bastard."

The words came out low, bitten through clenched teeth.

He made me look like a fool... A top dog overshadowed by a nobody.

The thought burned worse than defeat ever could.

Around them, the celebration dimmed into awkward glances. A few teammates stepped back, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

Ryven finally looked at him , not challengingly, not apologetically. Just... directly.

"You wanted to lead," he said calmly. "I wanted to win. Those are not always the same goal."

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t aggressive.

But it landed harder than a punch.

Timothy’s jaw flexed. For a second, it looked like he might swing , pride, humiliation, and anger twisting together in his chest. But the roaring crowd beyond the perimeter, the flashing scoreboards, the cameras... they all reminded him where he was.

Starting a fight now would only make him look smaller.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away.

"Enjoy your five minutes," he muttered. "Heroes fade fast."

Ryven didn’t answer.

He simply put his helmet back on —

not to ride,

but as if to shut the world out again.

Spike froze when the announcement echoed through the arena speakers.

"Wait — it’s over already?"

He tore his helmet off and hurled it onto the asphalt. The plastic shell skidded across the road with a sharp crack.

"I can’t believe we lost to some roaches, Bull. Now I just wanna tear someone to shreds."

Bulldozer loosened his grip on the captured flag and let out a deep laugh, the sound rumbling from his chest.

"Bold of us to forget there were other teams on the field," he said. "We were too busy playing kings of the hill."

Spike clicked his tongue, shoulders still tense, but he didn’t argue.

A few meters away, Hunter remained seated on his bike, helmet still on, visor reflecting the blinking scoreboards.

The purple team won...

He exhaled slowly. So Lucian really saw through it before anyone else did.

Across the road, Ethan was already pulling away, engine humming low ,no celebration, no backward glance. Just gone, like the race had never meant more than a checkpoint to him.

Bulldozer mounted his bike and gave one last wave over his shoulder.

"Well played, all teams. I expect better chaos next event."

His engine roared to life, and he sped off. Spike followed a second later, still visibly fuming, tires screeching as if the ground itself had offended him.

The arena that had thundered with adrenaline minutes ago began to thin out —

cheers fading,

engines dispersing,

but the tension between rivals lingering in the air like exhaust smoke.

Hunter finally lifted his visor.

"Next time," he murmured to no one in particular,